


Within

by Maraudererasmut



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Angst and Feels, Author, Author Remus Lupin, Author Sirius Black, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Writer, Writer Remus Lupin, Writer Sirius BLack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 04:11:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17594387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maraudererasmut/pseuds/Maraudererasmut
Summary: There were things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them, and let them hurt me.― Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly CloseIt had only been a month since Remus Lupin moved into Sirius Black's flat, and he regretted the decision immensely. The publisher had encouraged it, insisted on it, hoping to help push Lupin to produce another bestseller. His first book had been a hit, and Potter Publishing was more than happy to give Lupin an advance for his next novel. As the months dragged on, however, it became increasingly clear that the author didn't have another epic tale in him. Six months had passed where Lupin had no words, no income and no one to turn to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A HUGE thank you to my amazing Betas, without whom, this fic would NOT have been finished on time!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who helped encourage and support me while writing this! And thank YOU for reading this!

_It was a dark and stormy night. The kind of night they write about in books. The kind of night they urge you to stay home._

 

Remus chewed his lip in thought as he reread his first few lines. With an unsatisfied sigh, he scratched out the words on the page, digging the pen deeper into the paper than necessary, tearing a hole in its delicate fibers. He ripped his prose from the notebook in frustration, tossing it into the waste bin already overflowing with crumpled notes.

 

He subconsciously brought the pen to his mouth and chewed on the end, trying to come up with a new opening line.

 

_The rain pattered against the window, drumming angrily on the cold tin roof. The man sat inside and listened, waiting for the tell-tale sound of thunder, the blinding flash of lightning._

 

Again, Remus brought the pen to his lips, absentmindedly running it across his teeth. He reread his work twice, mouthing the words as his eyes scanned them.

 

“Still up?”

 

Remus sat up abruptly, snapping his notebook shut. He spun around in his chair, meeting the penetrating gaze that he was uncomfortably familiar with.

 

“Yes, _Black_. I'm still up.”

 

Remus’ tone was dripping with loathing, but the other man paid it no heed. A taunting smirk played across his lips as grey eyes flashed with menace.

 

“It's a wonder they don't drop you. I don't think I've ever seen anyone take as long as you have to produce a chapter…”

 

Remus’ eyes narrowed as he pursed his lips.

 

“Quality over quantity, Black. Although that might be a concept you're unfamiliar with.”

 

A dark laugh ripped through the small office as Black's face contorted with scathing glee.

 

“Says a man who has neither,” he said contemptuously, running a hand through his dark tresses. Lupin rolled his eyes and brought his attention back to the notebook on the desk, trying his hardest to ignore the searching gaze of the other man.

 

It had only been a month since Remus Lupin moved into Sirius Black's flat, and he regretted the decision immensely. The publisher had encouraged it, insisted on it, hoping to help push Remus to produce another bestseller. His first book had been a hit, and Potter Publishing was more than happy to give him an advance for his next novel. As the months dragged on, however, it became increasingly clear that the author didn't have another epic tale in him. Six months had passed where Remus had no words, no income and no one to turn to.

 

_"I'm sorry, Lupin. We simply can't give you another advance. Not when you don't have any chapters to show us. Perhaps... perhaps there's an alternative solution to your predicament."_

 

Remus had watched as Potter's eyes lit up as he sorted through his plan in his mind. The author knew it wouldn't be a good idea, but he was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

 

_"There's another author... Now, hear me out, Lupin. I know you prefer to work alone, but... Look, he has a flat. And an extra room. He's... he's willing to let you stay there, rent free. I've already discussed it with him. Yes, of course I did, what other choice did I have? I'm not going to let one of my authors starve to death because of... of.... a bout of writer's block! Look, Lupin, he's a very... prolific author. Perhaps living in that environment for a bit will help... inspire you."_

 

 _Prolific author._ That was publisher code for an author who churned out book after book, garbage, words lacking in substance. The books that Black wrote could hardly be considered literature, they were simply reiterations of the same tired old tales, brought to life for a modern audience. Anyone could do what Black did. Being _prolific_ didn't make him a good writer.

 

Remus knew that Potter wanted him to finish. He knew that he needed to finish. Or at least start. He wasn't going to stoop to Black's level and send out whatever drabble came to mind, but he understood that his situation was bleak and he had no alternative aside from living on the streets. So he moved into Black's apartment, which was significantly more lavish than he had anticipated, and holed himself up in the study, hoping to finish at least a chapter. A line. A title even.

 

Unfortunately for Remus, Black was insufferable beyond belief, annoying to a fault, arrogant and troublesome. Lupin knew he had made the wrong decision; his life would have been better if he had starved.

 

With a weary sigh, Remus turned his attention back to his notebook, staring at the last line that was written. He eyed it, focusing on looping letters scrawled across the page, barely registering what they said. He brought his pen to the paper and vigorously scratched out what was there, before writing down a single line:

 

_The monster was always inside of him._

 

_________

  
  


Remus lifted his head up and blearily stared at the room around him. Dark wooden shelves held musty old books that poured out onto the rug. He blinked back the fog of sleep, trying to orient himself. He was sitting at the desk in the middle of the room, pages sprawled across it, hiding the mahogany finish from view. He rubbed his eyes, trying to chase away the exhaustion, before noticing the blue stains on his hands. With a heavy groan, Lupin rose from his chair and slowly made his way out of the study.

 

The author shuffled down the hallway to the bathroom, stopping at the old mirror that hung over the sink. He looked as tired as he felt, with disheveled hair and bags under his eyes. A streak of blue ink ran across his cheek from where he fell asleep at the table, reaching all the way down to his scraggly, greying beard. He didn't have the patience to shave. There were more important things for Lupin to worry about than being clean-shaven or presentable. He needed words, and he needed them soon.

 

Splashing some water on his face, Remus attempted to wake himself up. The room seemed to spin around him, the floor giving way beneath his feet. Two hands gripped the edges of the sink, cool porcelain pressed firmly into his palms, the author steadied himself against the vertigo. Weary and sleep-deprived, he knew he was pushing himself past his limit. The man sucked in a sharp breath of moldy air from the old bathroom before straightening himself up and running ink-stained fingers through his unwashed hair. He turned around and trudged back to the study, knowing exactly what words he needed to scratch out next.

 

The pen danced across the page, the soft scraping of metal against paper filling the room, the only sound that seemed important. The only sound the author knew.

 

_The man had a tired look about him, his face slowly sinking into despair. His chiseled jaw and handsome features were marred by years of pain and self-loathing, taking a toll on his very being. Amber eyes barely showed through heavy lids. They were eyes that might have sparkled once, but no more._

 

“Well, if it isn't our eager little beaver. The man who stayed up all night! Have you finally written a sentence? Or is Potter Publishing's next best seller still a heap of scrap paper on the floor?”

 

Remus’ teeth clenched as his fist closed tightly around his pen. He knew he needed to ignore the taunting, but it was proving difficult. A word floated through his mind. A word he knew would come in handy later. Lupin quickly scrawled it on a piece of scrap paper lying forgotten on the desk.

 

_Sisyphus._

 

“Let me guess,” Remus started, refusing to turn around and look at the man behind him. “You've completed yet another _book_ between the time you woke up and the moment you finished breakfast?” The word _book_ was emphasized sharply with disdain. He hardly considered Black's work to be anything more than over-priced kindling.

 

“And if I did, it would still be better than anything you _haven't_ written.” Lupin could almost hear the smirk in Black's voice, smugness dripping from his words, punctuating his every syllable. The author turned abruptly in his chair, meeting the steely grey eyes of his tormentor. Black simply gave his houseguest a look of contempt as he scanned the ragged man, from his worn-out socks to his ink-stained face. “The coffee pot's full. You look like you need it.”

 

With that, Black turned swiftly away and disappeared down the hall, leaving Remus to fume on his own in the tiny study.

 

It was a while before the author managed to drag himself from his work and wander into the kitchen. The pot sat lifelessly on the stove, adjacent to an empty mug that had been set aside on the counter. Remus poured himself cold coffee and brought it to his lips, pausing for a moment to savour the strong smell. The stale coffee slid down his throat, leaving a lingering bitterness on the author's tongue. He placed the empty mug back on the kitchen counter and climbed the stairs to his isolated lair, cringing at the groaning steps and squeaking floorboards.

 

Remus slumped into his office chair and licked the tip of his pen, coaxing out the ink, before setting it against the page.

 

_For all intents and purposes, he was an ordinary man. He held an ordinary job, lived in an ordinary house. The only thing his neighbours could say about him that was peculiar was his penchant for wearing a sweater at all times, despite the weather. It was odd, yes, but not exceptionally noteworthy._

 

Remus lifted his pen and paused, listening intently. He could have sworn that he had heard a noise. A moment passed. The author glanced over his shoulder before shrugging the feeling off and returning to his writing.

 

_He was not, however, an ordinary man. He harboured a secret, so powerful, so frightening, that he hardly had the strength to admit it aloud, even to himself in the privacy of his own home._

 

Again, the author paused, his pen hovering above the notebook. This time, he was sure. He had definitely heard something.

 

“Black, if that's you, I don't appreciate these games you're playing.”

 

There was no response.

 

Remus turned in his seat, eyeing the room suspiciously. His gaze fell upon the corner of the rug, upturned slightly. Out of place. Chewing his lip in contemplation, the author rose to his feet and approached the bookshelf adjacent to the corner in question. It was the bookshelf that stood against the wall that separated Lupin's office from Black's. He raised a hand, preparing to knock against the back of the shelf, but hesitated for a moment. If he had imagined things, if this was his mind playing tricks on him, he didn't want to give Black another opportunity to berate him. He didn't want to give Black the satisfaction of seeing him agitated.

 

With a shrug, the author turned around and headed back to his chair at the desk, picking up his pen and fiddling with it absentmindedly. He had to choose his next words carefully.

 

_Ill-fitting clothes and long sleeves hid the scars that marred the man's arms and torso. Medical papers and clever excuses covered up unexplained absences. For you see, once a month, the man became something entirely different, something so inhuman that it required an alternate term to classify. The monster was always inside of him, but during the full moon it reared its ugly head, tearing through the man's tender flesh, rendering him completely incapacitated while the beast escaped._

 

_Lowell Canis was a werewolf._

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sirius Black had a houseguest. 

 

It wasn't his idea. James Potter had asked him.  _ Begged  _ him. Sirius always did what James asked. After all, they were far more than work acquaintances. The publisher-author relationship never quite worked for Sirius. First it was a drink here or there, an evening of socializing, meeting the wife. It wasn't long before Black considered James to be his closest friend, and when your closest friend asks you a favour, you follow through.

 

So Sirius Black was stuck with a houseguest.

 

It wasn't that much of a hassle; the flat was more than large enough to accommodate two people. The problem was more who the guest was. Potter Publishing had several authors at its employ, but there were two names that stood out above the rest: Sirius Black, the author of over twenty titles, able to turn out a new book every few months; and Remus Lupin, the long-suffering artistic type, master of mystery and suspense. The biggest mystery of all was when his next novel would finally be published. 

 

Lupin was fascinating, of course. The way he wrote, his choice of words, he really did perform magic on his page, his pen acting as a wand. What Black couldn't stand was his conceited attitude, the way he would frown upon Sirius’ methods and writing style. It wasn't Black's fault that he could write quickly, and it wasn't his choice that readers were fond of his short novels and casual voice. The two men had drastically different approaches to writing and they butted heads constantly, even before Lupin moved into the extra bedroom. 

 

Sirius had taken up the habit of egging his rival on, a well-timed quip here and there, but he never harboured any hard feelings towards the man. Lupin, however, seemed to have acquired a distaste for Black, snuffing his every advance, belittling his craft. It wasn't long before both men spent their time bickering, squabbling, taunting each other relentlessly. It made life in the apartment difficult, but Black knew it was better than the alternative. 

 

As much as Sirius Black disliked parts of Remus Lupin's attitude, he understood that the writer was a good man. He was hardworking, determined, headstrong. He didn't deserve to live on the streets. Not to mention, there was something about Lupin that drew Sirius towards him. Something peculiar. Something fascinating.

 

He made sure to check on Lupin's progress every day. Of course, he hid behind the pretense of bothering the author, making snide comments with every visit. It had been an entire month, and Black's houseguest hadn't so much as written a single line. The study was littered with scraps of paper, tossed around the tiny writing desk, scattered carelessly across the floor. Sirius genuinely wished he could somehow help him, but he knew his opinion wasn't regarded very highly by Lupin. 

 

That morning, Black had opened the door to Lupin's study, having made coffee for the man, only to find an unusual sight:  _ words _ . There were words written down on a page. There weren't many, but it was something. It was progress. A single question rang in Black's mind:  _ Why?  _

 

Why was this morning different? What happened last night that caused the writer to have an epiphany? Where did the elusive Remus Lupin get his inspiration from?

 

_ Curiosity is the lifeblood of an author.  _

 

Sirius strongly believed that his curiosity is what drove him to write, to express, to pen words and explore the world through his favourite medium. It was that curiosity that also drove him to spy on Lupin. He needed to know what made the handsome stranger tick. 

  
  


The apartment that Sirius lived in was a large one and an old one. It had been built for a wealthy, eccentric man who had too much time and too few worries. The rooms in the expansive flat kept fascinating secrets within their walls, including the occasional passage and hidden doorway. One of Black's favourite secrets was the moving bookshelf, complete with a spyhole, that connected the two studies: the one he was using to write his book and the one he allowed Lupin to occupy. Sirius thought that if he could just watch the process of his fellow author, he'd learn a thing or two about the elusive man and his brilliant mind. Sirius did not expect, however, to find the other writer quite so charming.

 

Lupin chewed his pen. He'd bring it to his mouth, run it tantalizingly across his lips, tongue flicking out subconsciously as he mouthed the words scrawled across his page. He had long, elegant fingers that twirled and fidgeted; tapping, drumming, wiggling the pen back and forth. Lupin had sandy brown hair that shimmered auburn in the warm light of his desk lamp. His hair was a mess, curls falling from atop his head, getting in the way of those focused hazel eyes. Sirius was so captivated, watching the author work, that he didn't notice himself leaning harder on his side of the bookshelf.

 

With a loud  _ thunk,  _ Black's copy of  _ The Winter's Tale _ \- by Sirius Black - fell to the floor with an indelicate thud.

 

A pause.

 

“Black, if that's you, I don't appreciate these games you're playing.”

 

Sirius held his breath, hoping beyond hope that Lupin wouldn't notice the peephole in the bookshelf, partially obscured by an old marble bust of someone who had once been important. Lupin rose from his chair and headed towards the shelf, eyeing it suspiciously. Sirius immediately dropped to the ground, silently praying that his snooping would go unnoticed. 

 

After a moment, Sirius heard muffled footsteps heading away, finding their way back to the writing desk. He let out a sigh, grateful that he wasn't caught red-handed spying on his houseguest. Shaking his head, he rose to his feet and rubbed his temples wearily, trying to sort through the thoughts in his head.

 

What was it about Remus Lupin that fascinated him so much? Why did he feel the need to be so secretive when he could have easily gone into the study to start a conversation? There was something about Lupin lost in thought, deep in his work, that appealed to him; an indescribable yearning growing inside, aching for more.

 

He didn't very much like it.


	3. Chapter 3

_ Canis had always known about the curse that plagued his life, and he lived with the overwhelming guilt that accompanied his plight, a tortured soul constantly at odds with his body and his mind. He had been that way for as long as he could remember; there was never a time in his life that the man didn't hate himself for what he was, didn't despise his very being. While he put on a bold mask and walked amongst men during the day, he knew that he would never be able to lead the life he pretended to.  _

 

The scratching stopped as Remus’ pen lifted from the page, bouncing back and forth between thin, fidgety fingers. His eyes skimmed the paper, desperately searching for meaning in the prose-covered notebook. The pen made its way to his mouth, as if on its own accord, his teeth gnawing against its frame. It was a nasty habit that the man had tried to break a dozen times, but to no avail. At this point, he chalked it up to being an _eccentric, creative_ _type_ and allowed himself some leeway; anything that could help him write was a blessing. Anything that would allow words to flow from his scurrying mind onto the page, from the mess within, the jumbled words plaguing his brain.

 

“Well, isn't that a fascinating sight? The tortured genius is actually writing  _ words _ ! On  _ paper _ !”

 

Remus didn't need to turn around to know who was standing behind him. He sighed wearily, knowing that the stream of consciousness that had been his novel was about to get interrupted once again by his philandering, good-for-nothing rival. 

 

“Leave me  _ alone _ , Black.”

 

His tone was sharp, venomous, dripping with hatred that had been bottled up for years and misdirected at others.

 

“You're not hungry? Fine by me. Keep writing the same page over and over for all I care.”

 

Remus never bothered to turn around, he knew exactly what Black's expression would look like. There would be cold, grey eyes, impossibly deep; eyes that a man could get lost in, drown in, never to find shore again. There would be a smug grin, the smirk of a man who had already convinced vast amounts of people to do whatever he pleased, the type of grin that could conquer entire nations with a single flash. There would be impossibly sharp cheekbones, a frustratingly strong jawline, covered by skin so supple, so soft, from afar it looked like suede. 

 

Remus didn't need to turn around to know exactly what Sirius Black looked like.

 

Ignoring the man behind him and the unshakable feeling of being watched, he reached across the desk for a scrap of paper, sliding it closer to himself. His pen hopped along the surface as he wrote the words:

 

_ Orion Noiro _

 

“Fine.” Lupin heard the other man turn around and head into the hallway, muttering as he stormed away. “Don't have dinner. What do I care?”

 

Lupin returned his attention back to the task at hand, but it was too late; the thought was gone. The direction he knew he needed to take his tale had fizzled from his mind, evaporating into the ether. Lupin let out a frustrated groan before thumping his fist firmly against the writing desk, angrily letting off steam against the solid wood. Once again, Sirius Black had ruined things for Remus, destroying any chance of the author picking up where he had left off. 

 

With faint twinge in his stomach and an incessant growl from within, Lupin realized that he had forgotten to eat that day, his only sustenance being copious amounts of stale coffee and the occasional cigarette. The author considered his options: heading down to the kitchen to risk seeing Black there, or worse, joining him for a meal; or sneaking out of the flat and purchasing something to eat. While he was opposed to spending what little money he had on prepared food, he knew it was the better of two evils. 

 

He slid out of his chair and grabbed his coat and hat before quietly slinking out of his study and heading for the door. He breathed a sigh of relief when the cool night air hit his face, knowing that he had successfully evaded Black and his insufferable smirk.

 

As the author walked he mused about his book, desperately trying to point his character in the right direction. He needed a conflict. He needed a plot. He needed something to happen. As it was, Lupin was stuck with a man, an interesting man, albeit, but a man nonetheless. He needed a story. A novel. Something to present to Potter as a finished product. At this rate, Lupin knew his book would never be completed, and he would be destined to live a life of poverty, relying on the generosity of others and the goodwill of wealthier men. 

 

He strode down the streets, ignoring everything around him, focusing on the falling of his feet, the reverberating thud of each step, feeling the rhythm of his stride. The author was lost in thought, fitting all the pieces of his puzzle together, allowing his characters to weave themselves into some semblance of a plot within his mind.

 

Words appeared in Lupin's head, dancing back and forth, forming full sentences, phrases, paragraphs. The author knew he needed to find somewhere to sit and get his story down before it dissipated, lost forever, succumbing to the fleeting nature of thought.

 

Turning a corner, Lupin entered the only coffee shop that he knew would be open that late; it was the one he always went to on sleepless nights plagued by insecurities and intrusive thoughts. He sat down at an empty table outside, one of several cluttering the sidewalk, and swiftly pulled out the spare notebook from his coat pocket. His pen had barely uncapped when it hit the page and began its delicate dance with the paper. 

 

_ He wasn't evil. Evil necessitates intentionality. There was never any malice in his thoughts, no desire to do harm. He was no more evil than a lion, devouring its prey, acting fully on instinct; the instinct to survive. In his heart of hearts, however, the man knew that being evil was not a prerequisite for being a monster. A rabid dog, acting if it's own accord, despite having no evil intention, would still be put down after attacking a human, after all. That was what he was: a rabid dog. A wild creature that needed to be put down before it brought pain and suffering to the beings around it. _

 

A coffee cup was set down beside Lupin and he glanced up, catching they eye of the waitress. She smiled kindly as she set down a sandwich next to the starving author. He looked down at the plate, guilt building up in his stomach. He knew he couldn't afford the food she brought, not if he wanted to continue eating for the rest of the month. He opened his mouth to speak, to object, but she shook her head softly, her smile never wavering.

 

“It's on me. I haven't seen you around here in awhile, I was beginning to worry. I'm just glad you're writing again.”

 

Lupin broke eye contact and looked sheepishly down at his notebook.  _ I'm just glad you're writing again _ . The words dangled precariously in the air like the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head. The author felt a gentle touch on his shoulder and flinched, unaccustomed to the physical contact. 

 

“Enjoy the sandwich,” the waitress whispered before she turned around and walked away. Lupin raised his head just in time to see her slip past a few vacant tables and open the cafe door.

 

“Thanks, Alice,” he called out. She didn't turn around, opting instead to raise a hand at Lupin, as if to say “you're welcome”, before disappearing into the coffee shop.

 

When the author was sure that the waitress was gone, he frantically snatched the sandwich from the plate and practically inhaled it. He savoured the delicious meat and cheese, the soft bread with its crisp crust, the freshly sliced vegetables, lovingly assembled into the best meal he had eaten in a long time. Perhaps writing would come easier on a full stomach. 

 

Finishing the last crumbs of his dinner, he turned his attention to the coffee. At this point, he was half convinced that his blood consisted of at least seventy percent coffee. The notion made the corner of the author's lips tug upwards. He grabbed his pen, shook the thought from his mind, and returned his focus to his notebook.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sirius Black was a snoop. He always had been. He used to sneak into his brother's room when they were school boys, digging for secret information that he could use as leverage. It was one of many things that got him into trouble as a child and persisted well into his adulthood.

 

He didn't initially intend to invade Lupin's privacy. His original plan had been to go into the spare study to clear away the growing collection of used mugs, but he had been distracted by the notebook. There it was, lying open on the desk, asking to be picked up, begging to have somebody read from it. Sirius tried to resist the urge, telling himself to respect the author's privacy, but there was a voice in the back of his mind, egging him on. What made this mysterious author tick? What kind of words are produced by a man who locks himself in a study for an entire month?

 

Black lifted the notebook gingerly in his hands, careful not to disturb anything else at the table. The last thing he needed was for Lupin to know he had read the book.

 

_ The monster was always inside of him.  _

 

_ The man had a tired look about him, his face slowly sinking into despair. His chiseled jaw and handsome features were marred by years of pain and self-loathing, taking a toll on his very being. Amber eyes barely showed through heavy lids. They were eyes that might have sparkled once, but no more. _

 

Black continued, captivated by the words scrawled onto the page. There was a depth to them, a frightening truth that seemed to come from somewhere so dark, so genuine, that he began to worry for his tenant. Lupin's words were real, visceral, a story that needed to be told from a man who was tired of hiding. This was less a novel and more a diary, and Black could tell immediately how important this notebook was. 

 

He set it down gently, his fingers resting on the open page for a moment before pulling away. This fascinating author, this troubled genius who Black had taunted and teased; he really did have darkness brewing within his depths. 

 

Black made his way down to the drawing room and sat on the velvet couch, absentmindedly stroking the soft fabric. Remus Lupin really was a troubled man, pouring himself onto the page, desperate for someone to hear his pleas. Sirius wanted to help, to bring this hurting man into the light and lift his spirits. He just didn't have any idea how. 

 

It wasn’t long before Black was fast asleep in the den, despite the light from the floor lamp. Remus hardly paid him any heed, opting instead to head straight to his bedroom to get a good night's sleep. Black briefly woke up just in time to see Lupin’s shadow pass across the door before allowing sleep to once again embrace him. 

 

\----

 

Sirius approached the door to Lupin's study cautiously, acutely aware of the author's dislike for him. He wanted to ease into a conversation, get to know the man behind the words he had read the previous night. Now was as good a time as any.

 

With a sharp knock on the solid wood, Black waited patiently for a reply. When there was no response, he knocked again, firmer.

 

“What?”

 

The voice that came from inside the room was frustrated, to say the least. Sirius Black took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. He didn't want to resort to snippy retorts and sour come-backs. He refused to let his anger get the better of him, not this time.

 

“I made coffee.”

 

No response. He considered knocking again, but opted instead to elaborate.

 

“And eggs. There's enough for you, if you'd like some.”

 

Again, there was no response.

 

Resisting the urge to pound his fist against the door, Black took another steadying breath and tried a strategy that he had never attempted before:

 

“Please?”

 

There was a shuffling sound coming from the study.

 

“Why?”

 

“Why what?” 

 

A pause.

 

“Why are you offering me food?”

 

Black narrowed his eyes, glaring at the door in anger.

 

_ Because you're starving? Because you never eat? Because you don't know how to take care of yourself like an adult? _

 

“Because I want to.”

 

_ Because I want to help you. Because, despite your obnoxious behavior, you seem like a decent bloke. Because you're interesting and I'd like to find out more about you. _

 

The door swung open and Lupin's disheveled face appeared in the threshold. His graying beard was scruffier than usual, his hair sticking up awkwardly, as if it hadn't been brushed in days. He had bags under his eyes, deep purple set against the paleness of his skin. Amber eyes sunken beneath heavy brows, searching Black's face for meaning. 

 

“What's in it for you?”

 

Black scoffed, suppressing a smirk.

 

“I don't think Potter would much enjoy it if I allowed you to starve to death. Have you even gone into the kitchen since moving in here?” Lupin made to turn around, but Black stopped him with a word. “Wait!”

 

Lupin hesitated.

 

“Look, I…” Black didn't know what to say to Lupin. He just wanted to eat a meal with him, get to know him. “Please?”

 

Lupin eyed him suspiciously before giving an exasperated shrug and stepping out the study door, closing it behind him. 

 

“I suppose I am hungry,” the author grumbled to the floor. Black smiled to himself, accepting his companion's reluctant  _ yes _ and leading the way down the stairs. The two men arrived and Lupin awkwardly sat down at the table, where two mugs, two plates and two sets of cutlery were waiting to be used. 

 

Sirius grabbed the still-warm pan from the stove and pushed scrambled eggs onto Lupin's plate, then his own. He filled Remus’ mug with coffee before returning the pot to its burner. Lupin raised an eyebrow at Black.

 

“You're not having any?”

 

Black shrugged nonchalantly before taking his seat at the table. 

 

“I don't drink coffee.”

 

Lupin eyed his counterpart suspiciously, eyes narrowing slightly. 

 

“...But you make a pot every morning.”

 

Black's eyes fell sheepishly to his plate as he shoveled his fork full of eggs before stuffing his mouth. 

 

“...Oh.”

 

Black watched as the author beside him visibly relaxed, the tension in his shoulders loosening, his arms slackening to his side. As Lupin reached for his mug of coffee and took a sip, it seemed as if the warm liquid flowing through him helped ease some of the stress that had been plaguing him.

 

Sirius smiled softly to himself, happy that he was able to connect with his flatmate for the first time all month. 

 

“So…” Black started, watching Lupin carefully for any signs of hesitation. “How’s the writing coming along?”

 

Lupin’s eyes remained focused on the plate in front of him as he gave a noncommittal noise in response. He piled a large helping of eggs onto his fork and brought it to his mouth, giving himself time to think of a reply.

 

“I’ve written some.”

 

“That’s good.” Black wanted to keep the conversation going, but had no idea what to say next. “Potter would be happy to hear that. He’s been concerned about your book for a while.”

 

“I haven’t told him yet.”

 

“Oh.” Black watched as Lupin ate another forkful. This was going to be more difficult than he anticipated. “Why not?”

 

“It’s not done.”

 

Sirius fiddled slightly with his own fork, debating whether or not he should admit to Lupin that he had read a portion of his writing. 

 

“May… may I read some of it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay.” Not a good idea to admit the truth then.

 

“What’s… what’s this one about? I know your other one was horror. Is this along the same lines?”

 

“No.”

 

_ No? _

 

From what Black remembered reading, the novel seemed to have a fantasy creature, a monster. How was that  _ not _ horror?

 

Lupin ate another mouthful of eggs before speaking.

 

“It’s about a man. Just… an ordinary man.”

 

_ He was not, however, an ordinary man.  _

 

The words ran through Black’s mind, just as he remembered them on the page, scribbled across paper in Lupin’s surprisingly neat handwriting. 

 

“So, what makes your story worth reading? What's the tale that you’re actually telling?”

 

“It’s… a metaphor. About life.” Lupin paused and raised his head, deep hazel eyes meeting steely grey ones; eyes that searched for any semblance of meaning. Black watched as they shifted back and forth, trying to read him. “It’s complicated. You wouldn’t get it.”

 

Black wanted to shout. He wanted to tell his  _ houseguest  _ that he was being a twat, that he should treat people with respect, that just because he considered himself a tortured genius didn’t mean that other people weren’t capable of understanding struggle. 

 

Instead, Sirius shrugged and broke their eye contact, turning his gaze to the eggs that were getting cold on his plate. 

 

“You… you can read it, later. I just… I need to finish it. I need to finish something.”

 

Black looked up, surprised by the response. Lupin was drinking his coffee, pretending he hadn’t said anything at all. 

 

“Thanks.”

 

The two men ate the rest of their breakfasts in silence, each one contemplating their interaction, wondering why they never noticed just how interesting the other was. 


	5. Chapter 5

_ Orion Noiro was different from Canis in every conceivable way. Where Lowell’s appearance was disheveled, Orion was clean shaven and presentable. Orion was handsome, with sharp features and bright grey eyes; eyes that constantly searched for answers. His long, dark hair was always pulled back neatly from his pale face, showing a strong brow and prominent cheekbones. He was well dressed, wearing the highest fashion, turning heads wherever he went. He was a wealthy man, adorned with silver jewelry, including a particularly unique pendant featuring a wolf's head, inset with ruby eyes. _

 

_ The most prominent difference between the two men, however, was their livelihood. While Canis was a mild-mannered factory worker, Noiro led a life of adventure, his job taking him from country to country, city to city. Orion Noiro lived in decadence, having old world money at his disposal, allowing him to pursue his dreams. With his near infinite finances and freedom, he took on the job that had been passed down to him from his father.  _

 

_ Noiro was, like generations before him, the most successful monster hunter in the world, specializing in the capture and eradication of werewolves.  _

 

Remus sat at the desk, re-reading his words, chewing on his pen in the typical fashion. He closed his eyes, picturing Black, solidifying that smile, that expression in his mind. Not the cocky smirk that he was so used to seeing playing across Black's lips, but the soft, genuine smile that the man gave his eggs when Lupin had offered to eventually show him the notebook. It had taken Remus aback, causing his heart to skip a beat, his stomach churning painfully, a dull ache that yearned for affection and comfort.

 

He shook his head, tearing his thoughts away from Black's flushed cheeks and the strand of hair that always fell into his eyes. He brought his attention back to his writing, trying to refocus on the task at hand. 

 

The pen hit the paper and immediately began sprinting across the page.

 

_ Canis had no idea, of course, that Noiro was his enemy. To Lowell, Orion Noiro was simply the handsome man he had stumbled into on his walk home. The two had made eye contact, an instant connection, a spark flashing across the dark night, interlinking the two, weaving them together. Canis knew the folly of trying to forge a genuine human connection, but he couldn't help himself. Despite the warnings that his mind screamed at him, there was something about Noiro that enthralled him, enraptured him, made his emotions stir like never before.  _

 

_ Lowell wondered if his mysterious stranger felt the same way. _

 

A knock on the door interrupted Remus’ writing.

 

“Lupin?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Um… Potter stopped by for a visit. He'd… he'd like to know if he can check in on you?”

 

Lupin let out a long-suffering sigh, debating his options.

 

“Do I have a choice?”

 

“No!” It was a different voice this time. Not the deep, calming tones of Sirius Black. It was the excitable chatter of his publisher, James Potter.

 

There was a moment where the world fell into silence: no pens were scratching, no paper ruffling, no men knocking on the study door. Remus held his breath, hoping that ignoring the situation would finally yield a positive result.

 

“Well?”

 

It hadn't.

 

“Yes, fine, yes. Come in.”

 

The door to the study swung open and Potter’s jovial face emerged through the threshold, a pleasant smile toying at his lips. Black was following Potter at a languid pace, flashing Lupin an apologetic look, knowing full well that Remus wasn’t ready to show his writing to anyone, let alone the publisher.

 

“Lupin, my boy! What’ve you got for me?”

 

“Nothing,” Lupin groaned, shutting his notebook, hoping that Potter wouldn’t notice. “Still feeling the writer’s block.”

 

“Nonsense, Lupin. Sirius here tells me you’ve been writing!”

 

Remus glowered at his roomate, who ran a hand guiltily through his hair. 

 

“Does he now?”

 

“Well, I may have mentioned that I saw you putting words to paper, but I can assure you Lupin, I never said--”

 

“Enough yammering! Show us what you’ve got, Lupin!”

 

Remus’ eyes slid down to his notebook as he briefly considered the options available to him. Normally, he would have succumbed to the pressure, allowing Potter access to his writing, trying desperately to appease the man who helped finance his career. That day, however, Remus had other ideas in mind. He inhaled deeply, squeezed his eyes shut and rose to his feet, allowing the chair to scrape noisily against the wooden floor. He turned to face the two intruders, eyeing them coldly through heavy lids.

 

“I’m sorry, Potter. It’s not ready.”

 

“That’s fine, Lupin, it doesn’t need to be—”

 

“I said no. I can’t show you what I’ve written yet. Not until I finish...at least a chapter.”

 

Potter opened his mouth, only to close it again, vaguely resembling a disheveled trout. He turned to face Black, urging him to talk some reason into Lupin. Sirius smiled softly, turning his gaze to Lupin.

 

“You heard the man, Potter. I suppose we’ll have to just call this a social call.” Black gestured for Potter to leave the room, following him down the hall, closing the study door behind them. Lupin could barely hear the conversation as the two men strode away. He sank back into his chair and gave a weary sigh of relief, grateful for Black and his ability to redirect the conversation away from the unfinished novel.

 

“Thank you…” Lupin muttered to no one in particular. He shook his head and returned his attention to his notebook, hoping to regain his train of thought, despite the interruption.

 

_ Lowell Canis’ absent-minded wonderings were drawn to a halt the day he received the letter. It wasn’t an exceptionally elaborate letter; it had plain writing on inornate paper, slipped into a white envelope before being slid beneath his door. When Lowell opened the letter, he couldn’t help but notice the scent of the man who he had nearly run over the previous evening while he was in a hurry. He pulled out the note and scanned its contents, his eyes alighting with each word, every syllable striking a beat in his heart. _

 

_ I don’t think our meeting was random happenstance. _

_ Bumping into you last night was a sign. I saw you and you saw me.  _

_ And I knew. _

_ I knew I needed to reach out to you. _

_ Tomorrow evening, same place. Please be there. _

 

_ Your stranger _

 

_ It was unlike anything Lowell had ever experienced before. He knew at that very moment that he was destined to be with this man, that their lives would forever be intertwined, entangled. What he didn’t realize was just how dangerous a situation he was getting himself into. _

 

\---------------------

 

Lupin was startled awake by a sharp knock on the door. He sat up abruptly, groggy, sheets of paper sticking unpleasantly to his face and arms. He hurriedly cleaned himself off before calling out towards the door.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Are you… hungry?”

 

Black’s voice sounded soft, almost intimate, as if inquiring about far more than the state of Lupin’s stomach. Remus couldn't help but smile to himself in the privacy of his cozy study. He stood up and meandered to the door, fixing his expression to a stoic one before opening it. 

 

Black's face appeared in the doorway, a warm smile lighting up his grey eyes, glimmering with something that Remus couldn't place. 

 

“A bit,” he said, keeping himself collected. The last thing he needed was for Black to notice his excitement and make a snarky quip about it. It was safer to keep his barrier up, to remain taciturn and inexpressive; to maintain the illusion of nonchalance.

 

“Dinner?”

 

Remus shrugged, trying to keep up the pretense of boredom. 

 

“I suppose.”

 

Remus struggled to hide the flush of his cheeks when Black broke into an enthusiastic grin. There was something so charming about the other man, he struggled to keep his composure around him.

 

Black led the way down to the kitchen, yammering on about his visit with Potter. Remus paid the words no heed, instead focusing on the way the dark hair swayed with every subtle movement of Black's body. His eyes wandered to Black's hips, eyeing his lithe figure, desperately trying to stifle his own erratically beating heart, willing it to remain silent. 

 

“But you will have something to show him, right?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

Black turned around at the foot of the stairs, his eyes deep pools of fog, mysterious and indescribable. Remus stood, mouth agape, at a loss for words. Black watched Lupin for a moment before shrugging and turning his attention back to walking.

 

“You will. I know you will.”

 

He followed Black into the kitchen and was assaulted by a blast of heat when he stepped through the threshold. The room smelled of cooked meat, wafting tantalizingly through the air, causing Remus’ stomach to growl. He didn't realize just how hungry he was. Black handed Lupin a plate filled with slices of roast meat, a mountain of potatoes and a hearty portion of vegetables. Lupin rolled up his sleeves and sat down, his mouth watering at the thought of the delicious homemade meal before him. It had been so long since he had eaten anything like this, a meal prepared with care, the type of dinner that takes time and effort.

 

Lupin glanced up at Black, who was just settling into his seat with his own plate of food. Lupin could feel his cheeks flush slightly as he realized how grateful he was to have somebody looking out for him, making sure that he ate real food, checking in on him when he felt himself consumed by his writing. When Black's eyes made contact with his, Remus sheepishly looked down, staring intently at his cutlery.

 

“Thanks,” he muttered, hoping that he wouldn't have to elaborate. For a writer, he really was a man of few words.

 

“Any time,” Black responded casually before digging in.

 

Remus began to eat, savoring the home cooked meal, feelings of warmth and comfort finally returning to his body. Each forkful brought him one step closer to happiness, and he could feel his whole body sinking into relaxation, the worries that had been plaguing him for so long melted away by hot food and comfortable silence.

 

“Hey, Lupin…”

 

Remus looked up, his expression soft, a timid smile playing at his lips.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What happened there?” Black nodded towards Lupin's arms, and the perfect calm of the placid kitchen shattered in an instant.

 

It was so easy to forget. He had spent so much time hiding, he hardly remembered what it was like to live with other people, to interact with them. When he was out of the house, he knew to wear long sleeves and sweaters, but within his own living space his instinct had kicked in. He got too comfortable. He had rolled up his sleeves.

 

They weren't particularly obvious unless one was looking for them, but they were there. Along his forearms, crisscrossing, etched into the pale skin, faint white lines and dark streaks marring the surface. Lupin didn't need to look down to know exactly what Black was referring to. Rows and rows of them, clusters of them, scars of different lengths and thicknesses, different stages of healing, all permanently embedded along slender wrists and arms.

 

Remus hastily tugged his sleeves down, avoiding eye contact, pulling in on himself.

 

“...Lupin? Are you--”

 

Remus stood up suddenly, his head spinning, and he stumbled out of the kitchen. He heard a voice behind him as he clumsily made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. 

 

“Lupin!”

 

_ You idiot. You stupid, stupid idiot. You got too soft. You relaxed too much. Never let anybody in. Never! What have I told you? You can't fit in with normal people. You don't belong with them. You idiot. You stupid, idiotic failure! _

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

_ Lowell Canis left his home the next evening, bundled tightly in his hat and scarf, prepared for his clandestine rendezvous. He stood out in the town square, tugging his coat closed tightly against the crisp wind, searching the faces of the people passing by, hoping to catch a glimpse of the deep grey eyes and knowing smile of his stranger. _

 

_ Minutes turned to hours and time passed at a frustrating crawl, leaving Lowell outside in the bitter cold, fending off against the elements. He briefly wondered if he had imagined the whole situation, but the letter clenched tightly in his hand indicated otherwise. He was holding tangible proof that the other man existed, wanted to meet up with him, noticed the same spark that Lowell did. All he had to do was wait patiently and things would sort themselves out. For the first time in his life, Lowell Canis saw a glimmer of hope, an opportunity to live the life of a normal man, a chance to finally exist without focusing entirely on his condition. _

 

_ The church bells chimed, indicating eight o’clock in the evening, and Canis was still alone, grasping at his letter, desperately trying to ground himself in the moment. The stranger had approached  _ _ him _ _ with the note, not the other way around. The stranger wanted to meet him. He wanted Lowell to be there. The werewolf repeated the thoughts over and over within his mind, a feeble attempt at convincing himself that he wasn’t going insane. _

 

_ “Hello.” _

 

_ Lowell spun around, only to be greeted by a familiar sight. He let out a puff of air that billowed pleasantly through the shimmering winter evening. A smile played across his lips until he noticed the expression on the stranger’s face. Canis’ grin faded as he begun to realize the situation he found himself in. _

 

_ “Uh… Hello. I’m… I’m Lowell.” Canis offered his hand to the stranger, still trying to force a smile.  _

 

_ “I know who you are.” _

 

_ “Oh? Well, yes, yes you would. We bumped into each other the other night. You were out here and I was out here and--” _

 

_ Canis’ words trailed off as his stranger stared at him, eyes as cold as steel, boring into him, analyzing him. _

 

_ “Don’t play coy with me, Canis. I know who are you are. More importantly, I know  _ _ what _ _ you are.” _

 

_ Lowell felt his breath catch in his chest, his heart beating erratically, threatening to explode at any moment. He knew he had to think fast. _

 

_ “I...I don’t know what you’re talk--” _

 

_ “You think I can’t see through your lies? You think I’m as gullible as these simpletons, the townsfolk that walk past you, assuming you’re an honest man?” _

 

_ The words stabbed into Lowell, painful jabs to his already fragile ego. _

 

_ “I just--” _

 

_ “Shut up, Canis. No more excuses. You’re a monster. That’s all you are. That’s all you’ll ever be. I’m shocked you didn’t recognize me the moment you saw me. I was floored at how gullible you were, coming out to meet me tonight. Have you never heard my name before, whispered amongst your kind? I am Orion Noiro.” _

 

_ The name hung in the air and Lowell felt chills creep down his spine; chills that had nothing to do with the bitter cold of night. _

 

_ “Noiro…” _

 

_ “Leave this town. Forever. Before the full moon rises tomorrow night. If I catch you in your true form, I swear, I will kill you without hesitation. Have I made myself clear?” _

 

_ “I…” _

 

_ Before Lowell had a chance to collect this thoughts, Orion had turned away, his cloak billowing behind him, and he faded into the darkness, leaving the werewolf alone and terrified in the bleak night. _

 

_ Lowell Canis knew, right then and there, what had to be done. No more running. No more hiding. He understood that he could no longer live his life pretending to be something he wasn’t. He was a monster. A danger to the world around him. The monster was always within him, whether he presented as a human or not.  _

 

_ And monsters needed to be killed.  _


	7. Chapter 7

“Lupin!”

 

Sirius’ fists pounded against the bedroom door, the hammering reverberating through the hallway.

 

“LUPIN!”

 

He had just come from the study, where he found Lupin’s notebook lying open on the desk. Sirius had picked it up, read it, and immediately regretted his decision. He realized, for the first time since meeting Remus Lupin, that the man wasn’t writing a work of fiction at all. The words from the page flashed through his mind, Lupin’s messy handwriting burned forever in his brain.

 

_ And monsters needed to be killed.  _

 

He slammed his fist against the door again, unrelenting, fervently trying to get Lupin’s attention.

 

“Lupin,  _ please _ !”

 

He needed to see him. To know he was okay. To make sure he was alive.

 

“ _ Remus! _ ”

 

No answer. No sound. No movement. Black was beginning to panic.

 

“Remus,  _ please!  _ Please open up. Please, just… just tell me you’re okay! REMUS!”

 

How did he not notice it earlier? Lupin keeping to himself. The way he wrote his characters. The way  _ Lowell Canis _ so closely resembled his creator. Sirius cursed himself under his breath as he continued to beat at the door, hoping for a response, for a noise, for any confirmation from the troubled man within.

 

“ _ Please… _ ”

 

“Go away, Black.”

 

“Oh, thank  _ God _ ,” Sirius breathed, sliding against the door and falling to his knees, fingers throbbing from his anxious knocking. “Remus, are you okay?”

 

There was no response. Sirius gave another frustrated bang against the door.

 

“Remus, tell me you’re okay… Please!”

 

“Why do you even care?!”

 

The voice that responded was choked and hoarse, as if Lupin had been straining to use it. Sirius shook his head in confusion, trying to understand what Remus was asking him.

 

“What? What are you talking about? Of  _ course  _ I care!”

 

“Why? You’ve never thought about me before! Nobody has. Nobody has  _ ever  _ cared if I lived or died. Nobody ever  _ will  _ care. Don’t you get it, Black? It doesn’t actually  _ matter  _ what happens to me!  _ It never has _ !”

 

“What the  _ hell _ are you talking about, Remus? What’s wrong with you?!”

 

“What’s  _ wrong with me _ ?” Lupin’s voice was a shout now, muffled by the closed door, but loud and furious just the same. “ _ Everything!  _ Can’t you tell, Black?!  _ Everything _ is wrong with me! I’m broken! I’m just a waste of space! I’m a nuisance to everyone around me. I’m… I’m dangerous!”

 

“Remus, don’t  _ talk _ like that!” Sirius stared helplessly at the door, knowing that nothing he said could convince Lupin of anything else. He was terrified that Lupin would end up doing something drastic as he sat helplessly outside the bedroom, waiting. “ _ Remus… Let me in. Please…” _

 

“No.”

 

“Remus…”

 

“Stop calling me that.”

 

Sirius paused for a moment. 

 

“Lupin, please. Don’t… don’t do anything drastic. Just… let me in. Just talk to me, okay? Just—let me in.” He was desperate, pleading, searching for any way to convince Lupin not to hurt himself, not to follow through on the vague threats that loomed across the pages of his manuscript. “Please…”

 

“Why do you  _ care  _ what I do?”

 

“Because you’re a good person, Lupin!”  _ Because you’re interesting and fascinating. Because you’re brilliant and talented and you have so much going on in that twisted little mind of yours. Because you’re handsome and your smile makes my heart skip a beat. Because I enjoy having you in my home and I want things to continue like they were. Because… Because…  _ “Because I like you…”

 

The words rang in Sirius’ ears. He couldn’t believe he let them escape his lips.

 

“Why the  _ fuck _ would you say that?!”

 

“Why… What? What the hell are you talking about, Lupin?”

 

The door opened. Sirius was a pile on the floor, staring up at the tear-stained face of his rival, the disheveled hair, the matted beard, the reddened eyes. 

 

“Why the  _ fuck _ would you say you like me? You  _ hate  _ me! You’ve  _ always  _ hated me! What’s the point in lying?”

 

Sirius rose to his feet, glancing past the pink scratches along the back of Lupins hands, up into his tired hazel eyes. 

 

“I… I’ve never hated you, Remus. I—”

 

“Stop  _ lying _ to me!” He was shouting, screaming at the top of his lungs, his hands balled into tight little fists. Sirius made to take a step forward, but Lupin retracted further into the room.

 

“Remus, I care about you.” Lupin opened his mouth to object, but Black cut him off. “Stop it. I do. I know you don’t believe me, but I really do care about you. As… as a person. As a human being. I don’t— I don’t want to see you get hurt. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

 

The silence was oppressive as it filled the room and the surrounding hallway.

 

“Then…” Lupin started weakly. “Then… how else do I make the pain go away?”

 

Sirius finally understood.

 

Lupin was in pain. It hurt. Not on the outside, where everyone could see, not like a physical injury that could be treated by doctors and medicine. Lupin’s pain was within him. It was buried down deep inside, kept under wraps for years, never talked about, never acknowledged. His only outlet had been his writing, but even that proved difficult at times. 

 

Sirius did the only thing he knew how to. He opened his arms. He held them out, wide, a grand gesture of acceptance to his friend. 

 

“Stop it.”

 

“Remus…”

 

“Stop it, Black.”

 

“Remus…”

 

Lupin gave in. His body seemed to move of its own accord, going against his words and his wishes. In an instant, Sirius found himself with his arms wrapped around the other man, holding him tight, tears streaming down both of their faces. 

 

“I don’t know how to make it go away…”

 

“I know.”

 

“I can’t get the pain to stop, Black.”

 

“I know, Remus.”

 

“I just--I just want it to get better.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Will it? Will it get better, Sirius?”

 

A brief silence.

 

“I don’t know. But… but I’m here to help, in any way that I can.”

**Author's Note:**

> My prompt:  
> There were things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them, and let them hurt me.  
> ― Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close


End file.
